


It’s The Principality Of It

by megzseattle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:49:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24706357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megzseattle/pseuds/megzseattle
Summary: Principalities are made for battle. Like it or not.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 42
Kudos: 176





	It’s The Principality Of It

**Author's Note:**

> Just another story inspired by a tumblr post... and what I hope is a nice little character study of aziraphale throughout the years. Enjoy!

1.

Aziraphale was an angel full of contradictions. He loved being an angel but wished he could be fully human. He believed in the core virtues but found it very hard to practice some of them, especially those involving temperance and keeping your celestial temple unsullied. He loved the Almighty completely and utterly but found many of her underlings quite tiresome.

And most interestingly, he hated violence in general and fighting in specific, but he was absolutely lethal with a sword.

It was a fact widely acknowledged in Heaven that Principalities were made for fighting. They were guardians, and not in the soft and fluffy sense of a personal guardian angel who appeared over your right shoulder and told you that perhaps you shouldn’t have that last bite of cheesecake or that maybe you should go apologize to your wife. No, Principalities were guardians in the sense of standing alone, flaming sword in hand, on a promontory in the north of Britain and single handedly fighting off the Viking fleet. 

Not that that had happened, though. Aziraphale was pretty sure that there weren’t any witnesses to that event, and he intended to disavow it to his grave.

\--

Shortly after Aziraphale was created, he found himself standing in a long line in front of Heaven’s quartermaster, who was a strange little man with curly mustaches and a piercing gaze.

“Let’s see, who’s next,” the man shouted to no one in particular. He consulted his clipboard. “Ah yes, Principality Aziraphale. Principality?”

Aziraphale stepped forward and gave the quartermaster a polite smile. “That would be me, I believe.”

“New, are you?” the Quartermaster asked, crisply. “Always good to meet a Principality. Have they decided what you’ll be protecting yet?”

“I believe it has something to do with Her new special project on Earth,” Aziraphale replied modestly. “I’m not quite clear on the details yet.”

The quartermaster looked him up and down. “Well,” he said, “you’ll probably want to make a few changes to your corporation before you head down. Toughen up a little bit. You look a little soft around the edges, yet. No matter though, let’s see what they’ve issued you for basic equipment, shall we?”

Aziraphale looked down at himself while the quartermaster checked his list. Was he soft? He didn’t see any problem with his corporation; it was healthy and strong and comfortable and he rather liked it. She had made him this way, after all, and he didn’t see any need to modify the Creator’s design. He examined his hands and fingernails, looking for flaws.

A snapping noise brought him back to reality. The quartermaster was snapping his fingers under Aziraphale’s nose, trying to get his attention.

“You are a bit of a strange one, aren’t you?” he asked, not waiting for an answer. “Well it’s your lucky day, because you’ve been issued a piece of rather special equipment. Genuine flaming sword.”

“Ah, well, that’s just lovely, isn’t it?” Aziraphale said, trying to look suitably impressed. He didn’t know too much about himself, being relatively new, but he could already tell he had very little interest in swords and what one did with them.

The quartermaster dug around in a cupboard for a moment and pulled out a large sword with a dramatic flourish. He handed it to Aziraphale, hilt first.

The moment his hand touched the hilt, Aziraphale felt a thrum through his body that he had never experienced before. The sword felt like a natural extension of his arm, and he found himself testing its balance and making a few sweeping movements just to get the feel of it. It felt, he found, very good.

“Isn’t she a beauty?” the quartermaster said. “Now to make it flame, you just –”

FWOMP.

“Ah, I see you already know how to do it,” the man said with a smile. “I should’ve known. You Principalities are made for war.”

Aziraphale widened his eyes and quickly extinguished the sword with a flicker of thought. He was made for what?

“Next!” called the quartermaster. Aziraphale tucked the sword away and tried to find his way back to the rather intriguing scroll room he’d found earlier in the day.

\--

It was a relief, really, to give the sword away to Adam and Eve. Despite how good and true it felt in his hand, he’d never cared for the thing. Handling it made him deeply uncomfortable; something about having a weapon in his hand made him feel like his entire being was nothing more than a means to an end. It was true, what the quartermaster had told him so long ago – he was bred for fighting. What he didn’t understand, though, was why his loving creator would make a creature such as him, designed to fight and to decimate one’s enemies, and also instill in them such a deep distaste for the task. Why give him both an almost unbeatable set of fighting skills and a deep abhorrence for violence? It was… what was that word? Ineffable.

Aziraphale watched, long after the demon left, as the light of the flaming sword receded over the desert sands. Adam and Eve were making their way into the world, lit by the weapon he had never wanted. Perhaps it would be of more use to them than it ever had been to him.

It had felt like the right thing to do. He hoped he’d acted correctly.

2.

Aziraphale managed to go many centuries without ever having to fight, but it occasionally came up. He couldn’t help but be involved in a war here, a skirmish there. Various kingdoms over the years valued prowess in battle over all else, and sometimes it was necessary to provide a demonstration of his skills to gain access to the people he needed to influence. Sometimes he had legitimate reasons to defend a people or a place he cared about, and he did it thoroughly, dispatching the job as quickly as possible and trying to cause as little harm as he could. He rarely lost a fight.

He didn’t know Crawly very well the first time they were called upon to fight each other. They’d been acquaintances and adversaries for quite some time, but only ran into each other every few centuries. This changed when they were both assigned to influence King Cyrus of the Persis empire in his attempt to overtake Babylon and India.

Being a warlike creature intent on conquering most of the known world, the king’s favorite past time was designating two of his men (or women) to fight each other for his amusement. Crawly did his best to stay out of sight during these interludes, but Aziraphale, having been seized upon immediately as someone who was perhaps not in the best trim, physically, had been squared off early against one of the king’s riders for an easy win.

The king was amused and pleased when Aziraphale unexpectedly wiped the floor with his first opponent, revealing himself to be a rather astute fighter despite his soft and fussy exterior. 

After that, the king made a habit of pairing up the angel with increasingly challenging opponents – some with fists, some with weapons, some with just traditional wrestling. Aziraphale defeated each of them without barely breaking a sweat.

  
—

“You need to let them land a punch or two, angel,” Crawly warned him one evening after the fight had concluded in the usual way. “Bleed a little somewhere unobtrusive. People are beginning to talk. You’re making enemies.”

Aziraphale sighed heavily. “I don’t want to bleed! I don’t want to fight at all! This is most frustrating, having to pummel people for someone else’s amusement. How am I supposed to get my job done when all he wants is to see me beat people up?”

“Well you could, I dunno, lose?” Crawly suggested.

The angel pondered this. “I suppose I could,” he said. “How badly would I have to lose? I truly don’t enjoy pain.”

Crawly felt an idea come squirming up out of the depths. 

“Angel,” he said. “What if I arrange to get myself nominated as your opponent? We’ll make sure it’s wrestling so no one has to seriously injure the other. And you can throw the match.”

Aziraphale frowned. “Oh, and just conveniently you get to win?”

Crawly rolled his eyes. “Seriously, angel, what’s going on with you? Yes, I get to win – because if it’s me, you know I’m not going to bash your head in or give you a concussion or do anything serious.”

“Just wrestling?” Aziraphale said, considering.

“Yeah. And since we both agree on the outcome, we can make it look really good so they think you went down fighting. Should get you out of the ring for a while.”

“All right, it’s worth a try,” the angel said. “How are you going to get yourself put into the arena?”

“Just leave that to me,” Crawly said.

\--

Sure enough, a few nights later, when the wine was flowing heavily and the evening was growing increasingly rowdy, Aziraphale heard the king’s voice calling out for him in the hubbub.

“Yes, my lord?” Aziraphale said, bowing deeply before him.

“You’ve defeated most of my servants, and two of my secretaries, and even my youngest son,” the king said. “So tonight, I have a new challenge for you.”

Aziraphale looked up at him, waiting. The king motioned to his side and, unsurprisingly, Crawly stepped forward. Their eyes met and they both did their best to pretend to coolly assess the other. Good, Aziraphale thought. This was all going according to plan.

“Let’s see how you do against an opponent with less brawn but more cunning,” the king said.

“Wrestling, my lord?” Aziraphale said politely, trying to hide how much he enjoyed the “less brawn” comment.

The king took a moment to answer. “I don’t think that would be a very fair encounter,” he said. “You outweigh him by nearly half.”

Crawly snorted. Aziraphale glowered at him. 

“I think we will have you fight with staffs tonight,” the king said.

Crawly frowned. He hadn’t been planning on encountering Aziraphale with a weapon in his hand. That was suicide. However, he reminded himself, this wasn’t an actual fight, just a simulated one. He could get through this. He trusted the angel.

\--

It started as a fair fight. Crawly was fairly sure that only he could tell that Aziraphale was holding back; the angel made it look like he was convincingly testing Crawly’s defenses and finding chinks in his battle strategy that he could exploit. Determined to play his part, he set about making it look good by offering up a variety of jibes and insults.

That may, in retrospect, have been a miscalculation.

“C’mon, is that all you’ve got? I’d heard you know how to fight!” Crawly taunted him as they circled each other, feinting and drawing back. Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and spun his staff impressively and then settled into a highly defensive stance with his feet wider than his shoulders and his left hand holding the base of the staff in an easy grip. He smiled at Crawly in a way that was downright chilling.

Still playing at this, correct? the demon thought.

Crawly took the moment to begin what should have been a devastating downward blow with the upper end of his staff, but Aziraphale smoothly stepped towards him, missing most of the force of the blow, and swung the lower end of his staff in a smooth motion parallel to the ground, hitting Crawly in his flank.

The demon staggered back a step or two and reassessed, circling the angel widely while looking for a weakness. The angel was going to make it possible for him to win this, he knew, but he had to land a few blows first.

Aziraphale charged him and Crawly blocked him easily enough, criss-crossing their staffs expertly as he upended the intended blow and drove the angel back a step or two.

“Not so showy now, are you?” Crawly said, more to the observers than to the angel, although he did notice the angel grimacing in response. He pushed hard against the angel and their staffs disengaged as the angel dropped to one knee

Aziraphale pressed down on the ground with his staff and lumbered to his feet, clearly expecting Crawly to give him a moment to do so, but the demon decided to press his advantage, and surged ahead issuing a strong blow to the angel’s left side, knocking him backwards, and then a follow up blow to his right hip, which pushed him down to the ground. 

An excited murmur arose among the crowd. Could the undefeated champion be facing someone worthy of him?

Crawly, holding the angel down by the force of both hands on his staff, locked eyes with Aziraphale for a tense moment and noted that he had a small trickle of blood rolling down his left temple. Had he hit him in the face? He hadn’t meant to. The angel met his eyes, legitimately struggling for a moment, and when the drop of blood hit his eye Crawly saw something snap in him.

No, angel, no, remember? Crawly shouted psychically. You’re supposed to _let me win_. I’m doing this because you _told_ me to.

It was no use. Crawly watched the angel’s eyes ignite from their usual soft blue to a more fiery version and he knew, without a doubt, that he was in for it. Aziraphale had lost control of his fighting response and was moving into Principality mode, and before he even had time to move, the angel had sprung to his feet with superhuman strength and was beating him back to the opposite corner with a flurry of blows that landed more rapidly than he could block. Crawly dully heard the cheer of the crowd as their favorite champion beat the crap out of his opposition, but he was too busy trying to stay alive to do anything about it. He blocked, he parried, he ducked one particularly crushing blow, and he tried to keep his footing as the Angel of the Eastern Gate bore down on him in all of his avenging glory.

What may have been thirty seconds or thirty minutes later, Crawly came to his senses laid flat on the dusty ground, Aziraphale’s staff pressed into his solar plexus with such force that a human would not have been able to withstand it without serious injury.

“And we have a winner!” shouted the king, from his seat at the edge of the ring. “Counselor Aziraphale is again victorious!”

Loud whoops and cheers erupted from all sides, and the noise -- finally, thankfully – the noise seemed to wake Aziraphale from his hypnotic-like state. Crawly, fearing for his immortal life, watched as Aziraphale blinked and shook his head, looking around in confusion, and then looked down to find his ineffable adversary, bleeding and defeated at his feet, using all of the force of his will to keep a quarterstaff from breaking his ribs and possibly piercing a lung.

“What on earth?” Aziraphale said, moving his staff aside and offering a hand to help Crawly up.

The demon batted it away. He rolled to his side and carefully made his way to his feet, before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes with an intense glare. He dropped his staff at the angel’s feet in the traditional gesture of defeat, then limped off the combat field. Aziraphale watched as he accepted a flagon of ale from one of his mates and then stalked out of sight towards his tent without ever taking so much as another glance back at the angel.

“Oh dear,” the angel fretted.

\--

Aziraphale waited until darkness had fallen and most of the camp was deeply intoxicated before he made his way to Crawly’s tent. He called out to alert the demon of his presence, and then opened the flap to enter.

Crawly was lying face down on the bundle of furs that served as his bedding. He waved a hand in recognition of the angel and then grunted something.

The angel found himself unsure of what to say. He sank down onto his knees next to Crawly and looked him over. “My dear, are you all right?” he asked.

“Fuck off, angel,” Crowley muttered. “I’m fine. Can take a beating, you know I can. Certainly have taken enough of them, over the years. Never from you before, though. Jerk.”

Aziraphale swallowed in dismay. “I’m so sorry, Crawly – I don’t know what happened, when you made me bleed I just – I just lost control of myself and went into battle mode…”

Crowley groaned and rolled onto his back, then eased himself up into a sitting position. “I noticed,” he said wryly.

“You must believe me that I didn’t intend to do this,” Aziraphale pleaded. “I meant to throw the fight like we discussed, I just found myself… physically unable to do so.”

Crawly looked at the angel. He looked a little green, as if he wanted desperately to be ill. Aziraphale, for all of his training and purpose as a Principality, as a guardian, hated to fight, hated to hurt anyone or anything. There had quite possibly never been anyone quite so at odds with their intended purpose as the angel, Crawly thought, feeling a surge of sympathy for him that almost overcame the deep amount of pissed off he was feeling.

“I know,” the demon hissed. “Back off a little, will you? I need to finish healing myself.”

“Oh, let me,” the angel said, readying to lay hands on him. “It’s the least I could do –”

“ANGEL!” the demon shouted. “You already nearly discorporated me with your staff. Are you truly going to complete the task now by showering me with angelic grace?”

“Oh,” Aziraphale said, falling back. “No of course not. What was I thinking?” He scooted back several yards and let Crawly get to work.

Aziraphale let the king know the next day that he was making a vow of peace to his gods and would no longer be fighting. The king, having heard the grumblings and discontent of some of his men, wisely accepted this. However, the legends of the counselor to the king who could not be defeated in battle lived on for centuries in stories and song.

3.

“Laser tag?” Aziraphale said doubtfully. “I really don’t think…”

“It’s what Adam wants to do for his birthday,” Pepper said firmly, a look in her eye that could cow even an angel. “And he wants you two to come. If you say no, you’ll be the ones ruining his birthday and I know you don’t want to do that.”

Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, who shrugged.

And so they came to find themselves strapping on sensor vests and being taught how to shoot a distressingly realistic-looking weapon the following Saturday, along with Adam, Brian, Wensleydale, and Pepper, as well as a few other parents who had decided to join the fun.

“Angel, a word,” Crowley said, pulling him aside as they made their final adjustments.

Aziraphale followed him back into the vestibule. “What is it?”

“I just wanted to be sure that we aren’t going to have any problems today.”

The angel frowned. “What do you mean?” 

Crowley fixed him with a look. “Angel, you _know_ how you get.”

“I most certainly do not!” The angel visibly bristled. “What are you referring to?”

“You know,” Crowley said, waving a hand. “Put you in a fight and you get all – Principalitied up. I don’t want you losing control in there because a twelve year old makes your target light up and taking out the entire place in a swath of angelic rage.”

“Oh I really don’t think…”

“Have you forgotten the quarterstaff fight?”

Aziraphale flushed. “My dear, that was over two thousand years ago.”

“Do you remember who it was that taught the Celts to paint themselves blue and scream so loudly as they ran into battle that some of their enemies dropped dead from fright?”

Aziraphale looked both a tiny bit proud of that one and a bit embarrassed. “Yes, I remember that.”

“How about that joust we no longer talk about in Henry’s court? The one where you were supposed to let the favored contender win but you just couldn’t stop yourself?”

Aziraphale looked deeply distressed. “I healed all of them! Immediately!”

“I could go on,” Crowley said. All signs to the contrary, he was not enjoying this conversation, but he needed to be sure the angel wasn’t going to hurt anyone.

“I didn’t go berserk the last time I held a sword, did I?” the angel muttered. “There have been plenty of times I’ve managed just fine.”

Crowley eyed him. “No, you didn’t,” he said. “But these are _children_ , and it’s bad form to demolish the birthday boy at his own party. If I see you losing control, I’m taking you down.”

“Fine!” Aziraphale sighed. “Do what you must. I will be fine.”

He was secretly relieved as he followed Crowley into the arena, though. It was always good to have someone watching your back.

He cocked his weapon as they’d been shown, and surveyed the landscape, already taking in a few key strategic points. As the lights went out, he went into a tactical crouch, and instinctively headed for cover.

Oh, the humans were onto something with this one, he thought. This was going to be fun.

\--

“That was WICKED, uncle Aziraphale,” Adam said, breathless, as they sat around later eating overly sugary cake off of paper plates. “You shot EVERYONE! You were like… like a superhero in there!”

Aziraphale blushed and fidgeted with his plate. “I suppose I got a little overenthusiastic,” he mumbled.

Wensleydale jumped in on the other side. “No way, man, you were the high shooter for the entire arena!” he shouted. “How many people were in there today?”

“Thirty five,” Crowley said dryly, from across the table. Aziraphale met his eyes and Crowley shoveled a large scoop of mostly frosting into his mouth and licked the fork clean, never dropping his gaze.

“And you hit thirty one of them,” Pepper said, grinning. “Everyone except us!”

“Yes,” Crowley said acerbically, “how _did_ you manage it, angel?”

“Never mind him,” Adam said. “He’s just mad because you took him out first.”

Aziraphale coughed on his drink. “I truly didn’t mean to,” he said helplessly. “You surprised me, Crowley, when you popped out from behind that column and I just… got overexcited.”

Crowley continued to glare at him while shoveling cake into his mouth. “It takes three shots to knock a player out, angel,” he said. “You shot me seventeen times.”

“With a light beam,” Aziraphale pointed out. It wasn’t like it was bullets, after all.

“Lucky for you.”

“You can be on our team anytime you want, Uncle Z,” Adam said. “And you have to teach me some of your moves. I swear I saw you do a triple roll and come up shooting.”

Aziraphale took another large bite of the terrible cake and tried to block out the conversation. He was never going to hear the end of this from Crowley.


End file.
